


Extrinsic Spiral

by hoarous



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Danger Kink, M/M, Prostitution, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoarous/pseuds/hoarous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Just as Jonn is about to give it up for another bad day and try again tomorrow, a promising prospect steps out from the noise and warmth of lower Afterlife. A turian, male, in pale grey combat fatigues with a couple of rifles mag-locked to his back--absurdly expensive rifles, Jonn now knows from extensive window shopping. Most importantly, the guy walks like he's in a good mood--hopefully, good enough to spend a little money.</i> </p><p><i>“Suck your cock, sir, five creds?” Jonn calls out as the turian draws near.</i> </p><p>For those who don't remember them: both from ME2, Preitor Gavorn is the turian standing outside Afterlife talking about killing vorcha, and Jonn Whitson is the human guy whose gun you can break at the beginning of Garrus's recruitment mission.</p><p><b>Content warning</b> for references to sexual violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extrinsic Spiral

God fucking damn it, a few hours on the lunatic euphoric high of hope and self-delusion, and here he is a-fucking-gain, Jonn Whitson, age probably-about-20, back in the gutter. All because of that asshole in the fancy custom-painted armor.

Nah, Jonn, he thinks. You're lying to yourself. Again. It's because of your own damn continued poor life choices, and you know it. 

It was way too much to hope that the real mercs wouldn't be able to spot an imposter in their midst, and of course one of them had to assert dominance over the poor deluded fuck by breaking his hard-earned shiny practically-new gun. Months of saving up, down the drain just like that. So here he is, back to offering to suck alien cock for pocket change in the alley behind lower Afterlife. What a life.

It’s been a few months now since Krilahar, the three-eyed batarian girl who sometimes works the same corner as Jonn, first suggested he buy the gun. Or, well, “find a way to defend yourself” were her exact words, before pulling out her wicked-looking serrated sickle-knife from God knows where on her tiny-ass jumpsuit.

“Soulless like me aren't allowed real weapons,” Kri had explained with a shrug. “No guns, pretty much, any proper batarian who caught me with one would execute me on the spot. I get by alright with this.”

And she does. Jonn saw her stab a guy with it once, a burly human Blue Suns merc who’d tried to strangle her while fucking her from behind. It was over before Jonn had even realized what was going on--just a flurry of movement and a sudden spray of red, and then blam, Kri was gasping on the floor on her hands and knees and the merc was slumped against the wall next to her, struck mute by pain and shock, rapidly bleeding out from the big ugly wound across his exposed belly.

Jonn had run over to see if Kri was okay, ended up just holding her until the shakes passed and she could get up and put herself back together. And then, waste not, they'd riffled through the dying man’s pockets for creds and hightailed it out.

They hid out after that. Neither of them returned to work for nearly a week. By then the body was gone, the remnants of that bright bloodstain already virtually indistinguishable from the general ugly patina of the station bulkheads.

So Jonn knows Kri’s tip to arm himself was a good one, he just fucked it up himself by getting greedy. The pittance he makes turning tricks doesn't even begin to compare to a mercenary’s commission. Still, some money is better than none, and he just wasted the last of his... so here he is, back to square one. It's just too bad business right now is so slow that it's parked. To top it all off, Kri isn't even here to chat with--after all this, she’d probably just berate him for his lack of good sense again, but at least it'd be better than standing here berating himself. 

Just as Jonn is about to give it up for another bad day and try again tomorrow, a promising prospect steps out from the noise and warmth of lower Afterlife. A turian, male, in pale grey combat fatigues with a couple of rifles mag-locked to his back--absurdly expensive rifles, Jonn now knows from extensive window shopping. Most importantly, the guy walks like he's in a good mood--hopefully, good enough to spend a little money.

“Suck your cock, sir, five creds?” Jonn calls out as the turian draws near. That stops him in his tracks.

The turian’s mandibles work in the fluttery little motion that Jonn has learned to interpret as _I'm thinking about it,_ but what he says is, “Isn't that unsafe?”

“Oh, not at all,” says Jonn. He's had to put to rest that concern before. “Blunt teeth and otherwise totally soft on the inside, see?” He opens his mouth wide for inspection.

The turian laughs. He has a nice laugh, warm and friendly. “Nah, I’ve heard that much already, you wouldn't believe how some of the horny bastards on my team will wax poetic. I meant, isn't it unsafe for you? Turians are dextro, you know.”

“Oh,” Jonn says, surprised. _This_ isn't a conversation he's ever had with a potential customer up until now. He shrugs, uncertain. “Well, I've serviced lots of turians, and I can't say I've ever had any problems.”

“Is that right? Hmm,” the turian purrs, looking Jonn up and down. He saunters closer, into Jonn’s personal space... and then some, just short of actually touching. Jonn stands his ground and deliberately licks his lips, looking up at the guy. Very promising.

“I'll tell you what,” the turian murmurs, bending his alien head by Jonn’s ear, “I've just a received a very generous bonus from the boss lady, and I think I've used about as much of it as I care to on dances and booze... but I’ve still got money to spend and a few more days free. I've never had a human before and it sounds like, hmm, a lot of fun.” In Jonn’s peripheral vision, a mandible flicks down and out and then back up into its accustomed position, the whisper of almost-contact ghosting across his cheek. “How much to bring you back to my apartment for the weekend?”

Jonn’s mouth goes dry. Kri may be constantly giving him shit for having the survival instincts of a drunken space cow, but even he knows that this could be a very bad risk.

“I don't usually do that,” he manages.

The turian chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says, but he doesn't back away. “What do you say to three-kay for just tonight, and we see how it goes from there?”

Three thousand. Shit. Shit shit shit. That's more than half of what Jonn would have gotten if he'd made it onto the Archangel gig, and this guy wants him for maybe another couple of days after that...

...or he just wants to slit his throat and leave him in a gutter somewhere, that's possible too. The turian is bigger than Jonn, which is especially hard to forget with him looming so close like this, and probably a merc or maybe a guard of some kind, judging from the getup and the expensive weaponry. If he wants Jonn dead, then there's really very little Jonn will be able do about it, especially once they’re alone. Jonn’s pulse clatters in his ears, so loud that he's sure the turian must be able to hear it. 

Fuck. Three thousand credits.

What the hell, he thinks, a couple days ago he was ready to run into a hail of bullets with nothing to protect him but a stupid space-cowboy outfit and a gun he didn't really know how to use. What does he have to lose now?

“Yeah, okay,” he says, trying to fake the easy, confident manner he usually wears to transactions. “Sounds good to me.”

“Great!” The turian drops a heavy hand to Jonn’s hip and then, half-turning, slides it around his waist to pull him up snug along his side. Like they're a couple on a date. “Come on, let's get going. I'm Gavorn. What do I call you?”

Jonn stumbles only a little before he adjusts to matching Gavorn’s long strides.

“Call me Jonn,” he says.

\--

Gavorn’s apartment, it turns out, is huge.

Jonn follows him through the door--the lock is a fancy bioscan-keyed one, they had to disentangle for it to work right--and looks around while Gavorn puts his weapons away in some sort of cabinet thing by the door. The suite is double-high, with a living area and kitchen past the entryway and double rows of big windows along one wall. On the wall opposite the windows, there are a couple of doors, closed. A set of stairs climbs up into a lofted area on the far side from the front door.

Gavorn heads to these stairs, and, after a moment of hesitation, Jonn pads after him. 

As they ascend, a large bed comes into view at the far corner of the loft, which is otherwise mostly empty of furniture. Even this area by itself is bigger than most of the cramped closet-sized apartments that most people on Omega live in.

“Nice place,” Jonn says, as Gavorn perches on the edge of the bed. The view out the window, ceiling-to-floor up in the loft, is amazing, smears of lights spiraling out towards Omega’s dark horizon like a miniature galaxy in reds and oranges. 

“Thanks,” says Gavorn. He sounds amused. “I like it. Good view. Convenient location. Commute’s not too bad, most of the time.”

“Yeah? What do you do?” Jonn hasn't gone home with anyone before, but he's made use of the little private back rooms in Afterlife, so he has an idea of how this should go. He starts undressing.

Gavorn settles back to watch appreciatively. “Pest control,” he says, sounding like he's on the edge of laughter.

He's having me on, thinks Jonn. “With fancy guns like that?”

“Well, Aria pays me pretty well to keep the vorcha out of her sight.”

Jonn fumbles a button. He really should have guessed, he realizes. Gavorn is kitted out like a mercenary but isn't wearing gang colors; around here that usually means either blow-ins or Aria’s men, and Gavorn obviously isn't an outsider to Omega.

It's actually a pretty good sign for Jonn’s odds of surviving this encounter, at least. Aria may not be the most benevolent of rulers, makes no apparent moves to police or contain most of the awful shit that goes on around here... but from her own men, she’s said to expect a certain level of conduct that, Jonn is pretty sure, draws the line at dead hookers. 

“Lucky for me,” he murmurs, pushing his underwear off his hips. He makes his way over to Gavorn and braces his hands on the bed at either side of the turian’s hips, bringing their faces close together. “So, where do you want me first?”

Gavorn hums and brings a gloved hand up to Jonn’s cheek, running it down and across his jaw, drawing a finger across his lips. Jonn parts them, taking the tip wetly into his mouth in a suggestive little kiss.

Gavorn takes the bait. “Suck my cock, like you offered before,” he says. “I’d like to see for myself what all the fuss is about.”

“Yes sir,” says Jonn, sinking to his knees between Gavorn’s spread legs. The hand on his face slides back and up to rest on the top of his head. Gavorn helpfully opens the front of his pants with his other hand, and Jonn gets his first look at the goods.

Turian cocks are pretty fun, as far as Jonn’s fairly extensive experience of alien genitalia goes. They're festively blue, tapered pinky-thin at the tip and as nearly wide as his wrist at the root. They also curve gently but unbendingly upwards, which makes deepthroating a fairly tricky proposition, at least from an upright angle. Where humans and batarians get erect from fluid pressure, turians seem to have some kind of solid support strut in there, like an actual bone or something, that retracts into the body when not in use.

Gavorn is already half-extended. Jonn leans forward for a friendly hello, just a kiss and a lick, and that's all it takes for Gavorn to pop out all the way with a quiet grunt. He proves to be a bit longer and thinner than average, though the bumpy, cartilaginous structures supporting the base are just as broad as any other turian. Gavorn has three, stacked one on top of the other almost like a squat little snowman, with the individual contours fairly distinct--not always the case for turians in general. 

Every individual has different preferences, even within species, but Jonn has a pretty good idea of what makes a human exotic and appealing to most aliens, and the way that humans perform oral sex is probably at the top of the list. Batarians have mouthfuls of needle-sharp teeth, asari have catlike hook-barbed tongues… turians don't even have lips. Jonn runs a trail of teasing kisses up along the underside of Gavorn’s cock before drawing the tip of it into his mouth, giving it a good, hard suck, all lips and pressing tongue.

From the rattling gasp and the fingers twitching through Jonn’s close-cropped hair, Gavorn is enjoying himself.

Jonn works the slender top half of the turian’s cock for some time, sucking pressure and bobbing his head up and down. Then, as Gavorn’s breathing becomes shakier and his hums of pleasure more urgent, Jonn presses his hands gently to Gavorn’s waist and pulls off just enough to breathe, “Lean back,” his lips brushing against the tip of Gavorn’s cock. 

Gavorn lets out a reflexive buzzing growl at the sudden loss of contact but does as he’s told, settling back on his elbows against the bed, his legs still spread wide.

The geometry of this part is tricky, but Jonn has had practice. He rears up onto his knees and braces himself on his palms over Gavorn, tilting his head and neck at an angle, better to take his cock in deep. Gavorn makes a shocked, two-toned keen, like two oboes wavering in and out of tune, as Jonn slides down, slow and careful, and seals his lips around the base of the topmost bulb of his cock.

Gavorn is unusually vocal for a turian, Jonn observes. Batarians and krogan are often noisy, but turians not so much in most cases. Which is a shame, Jonn decides, because it sounds amazing.

It doesn't take much longer for the tell-tale little tremors to start, and then Gavorn is shooting come down Jonn’s throat. Jonn keeps swallowing, riding it out, and then Gavorn is gasping and collapsing back onto the bed, spent.

Jonn pulls up carefully and settles back on his haunches, resting his cheek against Gavorn’s leg. A three-fingered hand gropes blindly and comes to rest on Jonn’s head again.

After a lazy pause, he rasps, “Good as advertised?”

Gavorn chuckles, a little breathlessly. “I think you have me convinced.” His fingertips draw slow, idle patterns on Jonn’s scalp. It feels nice. Then Gavorn says, “You looked like you were having fun there.”

“It's nice to be good at something,” Jonn mumbles into his thigh. “And this is what I'm good at.”

“Yeah?” says Gavorn. “Well. You'll have to forgive me, then--”

Gavorn grabs him, lightning fast, and for a second Jonn is seized by a blind terror that sends a hot electric pulse of arousal straight to his cock--and suddenly he's left trying not to analyze that too closely because, it turns out, Gavorn has just flipped him harmlessly up and over and onto his back on the bed.

“I lack your expertise, of course,” Gavorn continues cheerfully, “but I think I want to try it for myself.” He can't possibly mean--

Oh God, oh, yes he does.

Gavorn is bending over Jonn’s crotch, studying it as if plotting an approach vector in his head. For an odd moment he looks for all the world like a fascinated cat. Then the illusion is broken by his long, purple-grey tongue, which darts out--and out, and out, and... and settles in a loose corkscrew embrace around Jonn’s cock. It constricts very slightly, experimental-like.

Jonn whimpers, fisting his hands in the soft bedspread.

So it turns out, having one’s cock sucked by a turian--or by this turian, anyway--is overall a bizarre and almost tortuous experience. Gavorn’s tongue is quite long, but not long enough to reach very far past the head--especially since he's taking care, thank God, to keep the pinching hard edges of his beak and mandibles clear. It seems he can't apply much pressure from squeezing, either. Instead, most of the sensation comes from a sliding, sinuous movement, strange and maddening, achingly gentle as Gavorn works his long tongue in a totally alien motion.

He also maintains unblinking eye contact the whole time.

More than the actual sensation itself, it's the surreal absurdity of it all--the unexpected reversal, the lingering haze of fear, the unrelenting predatory intensity of Gavorn’s eyes--that pushes Jonn up to the edge. Frustrated animal lust and confused fight-or-flight intent build each other up in a messy, climbing tangle of slow agony until it all tips, ponderous and unstoppable, into a wrackingly intense orgasm.

Jonn spends his very last scrap of awareness trying not to buck up into Gavorn’s sharp mouth, and then even that washes away into a giddy stupor.

After a few false starts, Jonn manages to boot his brain back into something almost like working order. Gavorn is now propped up on his elbows, leaning over Jonn’s torso--he’s smearing Jonn’s own come into the twitching skin of his belly. There's a small splatter on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and his pointy turian face looks kind of smug somehow. Maybe Jonn is imagining that part, though; he’s not all that good at reading turians, except in very specific ways.

Wait, when the fuck did he get his gloves off--hell, when did he get his _shirt_ off?

“That didn't go quite how I expected,” muses Gavorn.

“Me neither,” Jonn manages faintly.

“No?”

“Clients don't, uh, aren’t usually much interested in sucking _my_ cock,” Jonn says.

“Hmm. Fun, though, I was right.” Gavorn shuffles up the bed to sprawl carelessly face-down, next to and slightly on top of Jonn. “Maybe the strangest sex thing I've ever done,” Gavorn continues, slightly muffled.

“Yeah, me too,” says Jonn.

Gavorn turns his head to look at him. “What, really?” 

Jonn thinks about it for a moment. “Actually... nah, not really. Maybe the time an asari paid to meld with me while she played with my balls. That was pretty weird, mostly because she was giggling all creepy-like the whole time.” He hesitates. “Or, no, wait, I'm pretty sure--it’s gotta be when I was hired to fuck a salarian’s cloaca--”

“A salarian?” Gavorn echoes, incredulous.

“... to put on a show for his asari partner,” Jonn finishes on a grin. He adds, “There wasn't even any eternity-embracing.”

Gavorn laughs. It really is a nice laugh, Jonn likes it when he laughs. “From what I know about asari and salarians, that makes at least three kinds of no sense,” says Gavorn.

“Yeah, that's why it was weird,” says Jonn. “Never did get their story. There wasn't much talking for that one, once we got past... you know, stick your cock in there, okay, now fuck him senseless.”

Gavorn chuckles, and they settle into a companionable silence.

And then Gavorn says, “Ready to keep going?”

“You bet,” says Jonn.

**Author's Note:**

> Ending it here for now; might or might not continue later.
> 
> I'm not terribly practiced at writing porn, so concrit would be appreciated.


End file.
